On the Steps of Helm's Deep
by Sapphire1
Summary: Aragorn's thought while he's stitting on the step of Helm's Deep before the battle (movieverse)


On the Steps of Helm's Deep  
  
By sapphire  
  
It was madness.  
  
Around Aragorn milled the men of Rohan, preparing for a battle they were bound to lose - along with their lives. Men too old, men too young, men who hadn't seen battle in many, many years, and had grown comfortable on living in relative peace. And though they knew all this, knew there was no hope for them, they still prepared, stacked stones, spears and arrows in easy reach on the wall, put on armor, helmets, picked up swords. All for a battle that was doomed from the very beginning.  
  
At least there was no shortage of weapons and armor. The Rohirrim had used the old fort as a bastion since the far away days of the glory of Helm the Hammerhand, and it was well stocked. Most of the weapons were old, but had been well made and stored properly.  
  
There was no real hope for the people of Rohan, and still they prepared for battle, because they had no other choice. It was to die fighting, or just to die.  
  
He, Legolas and Gimli, they had still a choice. They could still leave. If they would ask, King Theoden would give them horses and they could turn their back and ride away, leaving the Rohirrim to their fate. This was not their fight. They didn't have to be here.  
  
But, of course, in reality they couldn't leave. That is, they couldn't abandon those people, and still accept what they were. Besides, he had promised Gandalf that the defenses of the fort would hold, and he would not break the promise to the old wizard.  
  
He didn't need to like it, though. There was no real hope that Gandalf would be able to find Eomer and his men and bring them here in time. Aragorn had seen the army Saruman had formed, and there had never been anything in his life that had scared him like that black, never-ending mass of Orcs, Uruk-hai and Goblins. Tonight, many would die, and there was a good chance he, Legolas and Gimli would be among them, and that was a thought that did not sit well with him.  
  
He had told Legolas that he was willing to die with the Rohirrim, to die as one of them, but he had said so in the spur of the moment, not really meaning it back then. Aragorn was angry with the king who had forced his people into this situation, and clearly expected the strangers to mind their own business. Theoden wouldn't refuse their help - the king would be a fool to do so - but he clearly didn't approve of them telling him how hopeless it was. Aragorn had the strong feeling that the king knew only too well what the situation was, accepting it, even if he didn't like it, but put up a brave front for the sake of his people, for he had no choice. There was no place left where they could run to, and all that was left to him was to take a stand and show Saruman how proud people fought and died.  
  
No, Aragorn had to admit, Theoden was a good king, a good example to his people. And also a good example to one stranger from the far North, even if it had taken that stranger some time to understand it.  
  
And now this stranger was ready to stand next to the king and face together with him whatever was coming. He wouldn't - couldn't -- abandon those people. His people.  
  
Aragorn had grown up with the Elves, and though they had tried their best, he had forever felt as a stranger among them. Here, here were people like him. Fallible, weak, mortal. Unlike the elves, men's lives were measured in tens of years, not in aeons. And unlike the elves, they accepted that one day they would die.  
  
For a moment, Aragorn's thoughts strayed many miles away from here, to two small hobbits walking towards the Mountain of Doom, carrying with them the One Ring into the heart of the enemy. They, too, had little hope of survival, and even less hope that they would succeed in their quest. Still, they were going, because it was the right thing to do. Frodo had chosen to leave the company, go on on his own, knowing of the pull the Ring had on the others, the lure it held.  
  
Aragorn had felt it himself, had heard the whispers of power, had heard it call out to him. Boromir, a good man on all accounts, had failed to resist its lure and he had paid with his life to redeem himself. Aragorn had resisted, believing that he could not master it, did not want to master it, but it had been the hardest thing he had ever done. At Amon Hen, Aragorn had faced the decision to go with Frodo or to let him go. Up to now, Aragorn was not sure if the desire he had felt to go with Frodo was based on his wish to protect the Ringbearer or his wish to stay with the Ring itself. And because he did not know the answer to that riddle, he believed his decision had been the correct one - the only one he had been able to make.  
  
As was staying here the only thing he could do, because it was the right thing to do.  
  
He raised his eyes from the stairs in front of him and looked around.  
  
To his left stood a youngling, barely old enough to wrap his hand around the hilt of a sword. He looked out to the North. In his eyes reigned fear, but still he stood, ready as he ever could be. No illusions of heroism there, Aragorn noted with approval. This boy - young man - knew that there was little hope for him to see the next sunrise. But still he stood there.  
  
"Give me your sword," he said, feeling the boy needed somebody to encourage him a little.  
  
The youngster looked up startled, but he was too well raised to refuse a command by an elder.  
  
"What is your name?" Aragorn asked as he accepted the proffered blade. As most of the weapons in the fort, the sword was old, notched in several places, showing it had seen battle before, even if its wearer hadn't. But it was straight, well sharpened, and the hilt had been newly re-wrapped with leather, making for a good grip.  
  
"Haleth, son of Hama, my lord." The youngster sounded scared and very, very young.  
  
Aragorn recalled the powerful guard, who had asked for their weapons when they had entered the Golden Hall of Edoras a long time ago - or so it seemed. Though young Haleth didn't have the width of his father yet, his eyes were the same, and so was his willingness to do what had to be done, even knowing there was little hope in ever achieving the goal.  
  
While Aragorn mustered the sword, the boy continued: "The men are saying that we will no live out the night. They say that it is hopeless."  
  
Aragorn suppressed a sigh, knowing that partially it was his fault that the men were thinking like this. He shouldn't have challenged Theoden as he had, or at least not in front of all his people.  
  
Aragorn rose and took a couple of practice swings, approving of the sword's balance. It was a little bit too short for him, but perfect for the smaller frame of the young man before him.  
  
He returned the sword, hilt first.  
  
"This is a good sword, Haleth, son of Hama," he said. It was old, but that didn't affect its usefulness. Old swords, young men, new swords, old men -- when it came to fighting they would do. They would fight and they would defend the keep, and though many would die, Aragorn knew, deep down, they would succeed. That, in the end, they would stand, and all the armies of Saruman would not be enough to destroy them.  
  
He grabbed the boy by the shoulder, looking into his eyes. Here was the chance to repair some of the damage he had created earlier.  
  
"There's always hope!"  
  
It had taken one small hobbit to show him what real courage was. To do what must be done, even if you didn't have the training or if it would be so much easier for you to just turn away and let others do it in your stead.  
  
Here, at the last stand of those proud people he saw the same.  
  
With a brisk turn he walked towards the armory. He was certain there would be something that would fit him.  
  
the end 


End file.
